The sound of
the horses feeding had long since ceased. The sleepy murmur of the
cattle was lower and more regular. In the increasing coldness the vapor
of their breath, even though the night was dark and moonless, arose in
an indistinct cloud, like the smoke of smouldering camp-fires over the
tents of a sleeping army. For two days the man had been doing the
heaviest kind of work. Gradually, amid much opening and closing of
eyelids, consciousness lapsed into semi-consciousness, and he dozed.

Suddenly--whether it was an hour or a minute afterwards, he did not
know--he awoke and sat up listening. Some sound had caught and held his
sub-conscious attention. He waited a moment, intent, scarcely breathing,
and then sprang swiftly to his feet. The sound now came definitely from
the sheds at the left. It was the deep chesty groan of a horse in pain.

Once upon his feet, Ben Blair ran toward the barn, not cautiously but
precipitately. He had not grown to maturity amid animals without
learning something of their language; but even if such had been the
case, he could scarcely have mistaken that sound. Mortal pain and mortal
terror vibrated in those tones. No human being could have cried for help
more distinctly. The frozen snow squeaked under the rancher's feet as he
ran. "Stop there!" he shouted. "Stop there!" and throwing open the
nearest door, unmindful of danger, he dashed into the interior darkness.

The barn was eighty odd feet in length, and as Ben swung open the door
at the east corner there was a flash of fire from the extreme west end,
and a bullet splintered the wood just back of his head. His precipitate
entry had been his salvation. He groped his way ahead, the groans of the
horses in his ears--for now he detected more than one voice. A growing
realization of what he would find was in his mind, and then a dark form
shot through the west door, and he was alone. Impulse told him to
follow, but the sound of pain and struggle kept him back. He struck a
match, held it like a torch above him, moved ahead, stopped. The flame
burned down the dry pine until it reached his fingers, blackened them,
went out; but he did not stir. He had expected the thing he saw,
expected it at the first cry he heard; yet infinitely more horrible than
a picture of imagination was the reality. He did not light another
match, he did not wish to see. To hear was bad enough--to hear and to
know. He started for the door; and behind him three great ho